Fiction is not merely a small piece of an author's vast imagination; it is a world on its own. For those who possess the unique gift of imagination, they will be able to see the beauty and the magic contained in writing.

I am indifferent to those who think that it is impractical for me to publish my writing or express my opinions, however controversial they may be, through it. As an author, I have the right to express my feelings through my writing.

I would also like to take this chance to encourage every single one of you to pursue your dreams, no matter what they are, against all odds. Do not allow yourself to be put down by anything or anyone, regardless of what they might say. Do not stop trying until you have succeeded and even then, try for more. You can achieve whatever you put your mind to, and it is never too early or too late to start. Your age should not limit your abilities or prospects. I was only fourteen years old when my first book was published, which is something most people accomplish only later in life. I would be honored if I knew that I could have the opportunity to be an example for all the aspiring young authors out there.

We were in a dimly lit vast room with brick walls and lots of machinery, all bustling with life. The room was occupied by more men, all dressed in jeans and baggy T-shirts, each of whom were holding girls like me. Those that to all appearances resembled me were my friends and fellows. My friends and I were outnumbered two to one; we were small and weak, they were large and strong. Albeit we resisted and put forth a great effort into getting away, those men seemed invincible. Their hands could have been made of iron, so powerful they were! I thrashed wildly in the cardboard box as they fastened strings around my waist, attaching me to the back of it. Apparently, they neither heard my protests, nor saw my frantic movements. It was an invisible fight, and anyway nobody would view it as a struggle for our objections and scuffles went unheeded and nobody bothered to defend us.

This happened often, this trapping and binding from which it was impossible to elude. We were viewed as lifeless objects, pieces of plastic; indeed, we were the latter. But lifeless? I should say not!

You, the reader, assume that if you were there, you would stop these malevolent men from harming us further. You think you would report these low lives that pick on us because they have an advantage. But no, it's not what you would do at all. If you chanced to witness this process, you would look on in amusement and clap your hands together in delight.

For there are no laws forbidding this procedure. We have no rights, nor laws to protect us.

We are first coerced to stand upright, head held proudly erect. Then, we are stuffed forcefully into a pink cardboard box, hands tied behind our backs, and feet knotted together with plastic. Everything is taped to the back of the box, including our hair, fair arms, thin neck, - everything. The box is then sealed, and piled on the floor next to other such packages, which contain all my friends.

Yes, in that factory we are packaged and subsequently loaded onto trucks to be shipped to stores. In the stores, we are arranged on shelves and we wait until someone buys us. No rest, no relief; we just stand there stiffly, sometimes for months, with smiles plastered on our faces.

Yes, I am a Barbie doll.